


The one that was not a goldfish.

by pyre-fyre (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:09:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22899292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/pyre-fyre
Summary: You lived in a world of goldfish. Years ago, you learned to analyze everyone around you in seconds. All to combat your anxiety disorder. But you became so good at it that you found it hard to simply perceive the people around you instead of seeing their deepest secrets.  You never thought that there could be someone who would understand what it means when your own abilities isolate you. Until you met the first person who doesn't seem to be a goldfish: Mycroft Holmes.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 81





	1. The umbrella man.

**Author's Note:**

> Not a native speaker, sorry :)

The one that was not a goldfish.

You braced yourself for a sensory overload when you entered the cafe. As always, your quick senses showed you everything you didnt even want to know about the people around you. sunglasses and headphones usually protected you against the aussult of „two much information“ you gathered from the people around you. When you stopped taking them to order your daily dose of caffeine, headaches came crashing down on you immediately.

The man on your right. Expensive looking suit, worn daily with visibly signs of usage. The watch on his wrist was expensive and a bit outdated but not old enough to be an antique. His nervous looks indicate that he is waiting for someone. A woman, probably. Looks far too often at his reflection in the napkin rack to wait for a business partner. He looks at his phone, turns it off and puts it in his bag. He doesn't want his date to see his phone. There's a pale ridge on his ring finger, like he recently took off a ring – wedding ring. He's cheating on his wife. His date is hoping for a rich stockbroker, but does not know that he actually only sells shoes in a department store three streets away and – STOP.

You force yourself to interrupt your thought process. Your headaches get worse with every second and you try to take a deep breath. With your eyes closed you try to concentrate only on yourself. Again and again you repeat your mantra: Don't look at all, don't think about it, you just want a coffee. Others might have called the incredible speed of your brain a gift, but for you it was more of a curse. It prevented you from living a normal life, maintaining friendships, having normal relationships. All attempts to establish a deeper connection to the people around you usually failed because of the same thing: after a few moments you knew everything and far too much about your counterpart. A therapist had taught you this tactic of deduction years ago to deal with your anxiety disorder. No one expected how well it actually worked. It didn't help you with your anxiety disorder, but it got you through university with top grades up to a position as a research assistant in political consulting. But although you liked your job and your colleagues, you couldn't help but distance yourself from them. It just always felt like you were the only person in a world full of – 

„…goldfish“ ,said you sadly and turned your gaze to the cashier of the cafe you were standing in front of.  
„Excuse me?“ she asked and raised one eyebrow. 

Unwashed hair and puffy eyes, fresh lipstick on crumbling make-up, slightly washed stamp on the back of her right hand, probably a party girl who stumbled from the club straight to her shift.

"A large black coffee," you threw at her and try not to look at her any further. If she found you rude, at least she had the wisdom not to show it. You put the money on the counter - of course you knew the prices by heart - and wait at the other end of the counter until your order was ready. Which was usually 52 seconds if the lids were at a 90 degree angle to the left-handed barista so he could grab them quickly. 

You reached for your coffee as soon as it was ready and turned around to rush outside. Your sunglasses and headphones were already in your hand when you stopped suddenly.

At the table to your right sat a middle-aged man in a dark three-piece suit. In his hand a newspaper in a language you didn't know. He looked totally out of place in this little cafe. He belonged more to a fancy club for men with cigars. And money. A lot of money. But for once, it wasn't the man himself who got your train of thought going. It was the umbrella he had leaned against the table. 

Two centimetres too long for a standard umbrella, wide shaft with a much too great curvature in the inside of the metal bars. The handle was clearly made of solid wood, unusual for an object that should be light and portable for reasons of mobility. A slight unevenness and fine micro cracks on a small stainless steel strip on the inside of the handle. Something was hidden inside this umbrella. It almost looked like a-

„hidden blade“, you mumbled while still staring at the umbrella. The man looked up from his newspaper and stared at you with open interest. He didn't seem surprised or angry - rather concerned. Before he can say anything, you put on your sunglasses and headphones and started your usual classical violin playlist and stormed out of the cafe. 

You couldn't forget the umbrella man all day. With all your strength you tried to remember the man's appearance, but you had concentrated far too much on the umbrella. You had to laugh that for the first time in your life you knew too little about a person you had only seen when passing by. 

The next morning you went to work as usual. But even as you got on the train, you had the strange feeling of being watched. You couldn't explain it exactly but it seemed as if all eyes around you were on you. You could see at least three conspicuously inconspicuous men, who were examining you closely. They looked at you for far too long to perceive you as just a normal commuter, and shivers ran down your spine. Nevertheless, you tried with all your strength not to look at them more closely. Probably your head just played a trick on you and after you had been thinking about the umbrella man all night last night, it even seemed plausible to you. Probably you just went crazy for good.

It wasn't until you looked at your desk and were about to go through the latest research results that you knew something was really wrong. On your desk there was a small envelope, closed with a wax seal with the letters "MH" on it.

Your raging brain immediately went through every person you ever knew, but you couldn't assign the initials to anyone. You carefully opened the letter.

Dear Ms. (L/N),  
You'll be picked up at 1:00.  
Your absence from the institute is excused.

With kind regards  
Mycroft Holmes

PS: You were quite correct about the umbrella. I'd be curious to know how you arrived at that conclusion.

You were immediately harshly reminded of why you learned how deduction works in the first place: Your anxiety struck you down. Panic rose up your throat and you could barely breathe. Cold sweat of fear began to build up in your neck. To avoid a panic attack, you concentrated on the letter and blocked the fear by analyzing the handwriting.

It was masculine and neat. Written delicately and cleanly with a pen, the ink was deep black and the soft gloss confirmed the overall impression of the letter: Expensive. Thick hand-woven letter paper, noble wax seal and a matching envelope. Pricey. Very pricey. The fact that the author had spent so much money to write you a letter made it clear: either money was not an issue for MH or it was not his expenses.  
However, no company would write such elegant handwritten letters. Perhaps MH belonged to the government? It was a plausible explanation. Royalties liked to use this kind of stationery. But why would a royal write to you? And why does that royal know your name?

The letters had no unnecessary embellishments. The words were slightly cursive but each letter was perfectly straight, suggesting a hidden playfulness in the writer's character. But the cleanliness and style spoke against this playfulness. It just did not fit into the picture. Then finally you read the last line again and smiled at it. The Umbrella Man.

Your panic was forgotten. You read the letter several more times and remembered the short moments in the cafe and tried to unravel the contradictions of the letter, the umbrella and the man. 

Any other letter you could probably have analyzed up to the minute it was written, but this little piece of paper just didn't make sense.

But even after you had pondered for hours, you could not get a clear picture of who MH really was. It was not only unusual, it was almost intoxicating not to know anything. You could not wait to solve the mystery of the Umbrella Man.

You were standing at the door of your institute at exactly 1pm when a black limousine pulled up. A tall man dressed in black stepped out of the passenger seat and opened the rear door. 

A short analysis of the man revealed: Security Service, already in the job for years, has great confidence in his boss.

You got into the limousine and as expected, you were alone in the back seat. Everything you knew about the umbrella man told you that he would not talk to you in a car. 

Your premonition was confirmed. Through several secured gates, the limousine drove towards a large mansion. You were glad to finally get out of the car after you had already learned more information about the driver and his companion during this twenty-minute drive than you wanted to know. Cursed be these deductive skills.

Through magnificent halls you were brought up to two swinging doors. Without hesitation you opened the door and entered a large, well-filled library. At first sight you saw classics, foreign language books, law books of different nations, poetry, poetry and even a Harry Potter novel. However, you could no longer think about the books when you saw the dapper man sitting at a desk, bent over documents and a laptop.

There he was: the umbrella man. 

He was tall, middle-aged and dressed in an elegant three-piece suit like the last time you saw him. 

Expensive, probably tailor-made for his stature. Slightly crumpled because he spent all day in it, probably a workhorse. Strict, strong posture that radiates power, not just the desire for it. A man who doesn't have to carry his authority to the outside world, his charisma did that for him. Definitely Government. 

Still, something didn't quite fit the bill. Something about his eyes revealed a deep insecurity. Together with the slightly wider vest under his suit jacket and the hand he had placed in front of his stomach, a thought came to you.

"May I ask what you are thinking?" he suddenly asked with an icy expression in his eyes. The insecurity had disappeared. You shrugged your shoulders and answered honestly: "I wondered if you were fat as a child and still have issues with your weight." At his surprised expression you immediately raised your hands reassuringly: "Not that you need to. You look fine. Well, you know, normal. Not really normal, but just... handsome. I mean, not... fat." 

You felt the blush shoot into your face. You knew what was coming. Your openness was rarely well received. But when you looked at him again, a broad grin showed up on his face.  
"Extraordinary." He finally said. You could only stare at him. Like in the café, he didn't seem a bit surprised or confused by your quick thinking or openess. He did seem... pleased. 

"there are few people with your... skills." His grin went back to that ice-cold expression. "Most people are like..."  
He was looking for the right word and you came to his rescue.  
"Goldfish?" you carefully added. His answer came immediately:  
"Exactly."  
When you looked into his eyes, the world seemed to stand still for a brief moment. It felt like pieces of a puzzle fitting together.

Now you knew what astonished you about his appearance. The second you entered the room, he had analyzed you as you analyzed him. No movement escaped his clever eyes, he perceived every twitch of you and stored it as information.

"But you're not a goldfish, Ms. (L/N)," he finally said before taking a step towards you.  
You put your bag on the floor, you didn't realize how tightly you had clasped it.  
"Nor are you, Mr. Holmes."


	2. You called him handsome.

Mycroft Holmes had made you an offer you could hardly refuse. You were right to suspect him of working for the government. From the brief information he gave you, you'd already guessed that he probably controlled the whole country. And he was offering to work for him as part of a secret service job.

You had never really been interested in politics and you didn't really care about who just ripped off which party with which intrigue. But you did have an interest in Mycroft Holmes. It tickled you to learn what information he had gained from his position and what he had gained in the brief moments of your meeting. You were sure, though, that nothing had escaped those clever eyes. Everything you could tell about yourself through your body language, your clothes or your speech he had probably noted down mentally in seconds.

After the meeting you were driven back to your office, but you could hardly concentrate on work. Your mind kept racing around Mycroft Holmes. He wasn't attractive in the classic sense. But you couldn't forget his intelligence, his good manners, and that grin.  
It'd been so long since any man had sparked that interest in you. 

But you weren't really sure you wanted to work for him. It also made you a bit afraid of having a boss who could analyze you from top to bottom right away. But that was really just an excuse. You have always been very open, and honestly had no problems with what your colleagues thought about you. 

Your thoughts were interrupted by the hum of your cell phone. When you took a look you saw a message from an unknown number.

"I expect your answer in two days. MH"

That was actually a little creepy. How did he get your number, and how did he know you'd be back at your office right now? Probably had you under surveillance. That's a really scary thought. Could you really be involved with a person with these options? Or did it worry you more that you didn't care what he could do? That you actually liked the excitement a little bit.

You remembered the letter you stuffed in your pocket before the meeting. You thought of the slight playfulness that you saw in it, and an idea came to you. It was probably a pretty stupid idea, but you had to know if you were right. So you decided to respond to the message.

Quickly you typed in your cell phone.   
"The number you are trying to reach is not in service."  
Your thumb hovered over the send button for a short time, but finally you sent the message.

The answer came promptly:  
"Very funny. Then I guess I'd better send the message to your three e-mail addresses and your your flat in Hoverstreet."

Hah! So you were right. He did have a bit of a sense of humour and he really had found out every detail about your life.

You had to grin when you answered: 

"You could have mixed up the numbers, couldn't you? Better not send letters to my address, I think my landlord is stealing my mail."

You put away your cell phone and tried to concentrate on work. A few answered emails later, your phone buzzed again. The impatience drove you crazy, but you didn't answer right away, you didn't want to appear as if you had nothing better to do than wait for his messages. That thought made you laugh. You couldn't remember the last time you felt like this. 

You picked up your phone and you scolded yourself. You are a grown woman (Y/N), don't act like a teenager in love.

His message was just one sentence:  
"I don't mix up numbers."

You believed him right away. Yet you had to smile at the thought of the look on his face when someone accused him of making a mistake.

You were about to put the phone down when another message came in:

"And yes, he does."  
A glance at your last message revealed what he meant: Your landlord is really stealing your mail. Now you had to laugh out loud. Maybe you should reconsider that job offer after all. The thought of spending more time with him was just too tempting.

Meanwhile, in Mycroft Holmes office.

Mycroft put his phone on the side. In front of him were documents relating to all sorts of important government business. A change of ministers in France, a falling value of the East Indian market economy, two missing intelligence officers in Serbia. He had, as every day, more than enough to keep him busy, probably all night long, but he had not only taken the time to meet you, but also used his last favourite means of communication: Texting.

From your first meeting, when you casually revealed his umbrella to be the weapon it was, he knew you were special. Your knowing eyes had seen in seconds what his longtime colleagues had never noticed before. His insecurities with his weight were so deep that even he sometimes forgot about them. The only one who could see through him so well had been his brother and he had had years of practice in dealing with Mycroft. 

Within a few hours he had found out all about you. Address, phone numbers, family, friends, he'd even looked at your health insurance policy. There were advantages to being the British Government.   
After a brief look at your professional career and your outstanding academic achievements, it was clear to him: you have much more potential than you realize.   
Of course, he had convinced himself that his interest in you was purely professional. The chances for the Serbian agents were bad and he had to think about successors. To put it in the words of his brother Sherlock: A queen could never have enough busy bees.

Nevertheless, he had to admit to himself that you were not just another wheel that he wanted to adjust for his gears. A feeling that he hadn't felt for decades flared up in his chest when he thought of you. It wasn't sexual interest, and it certainly wasn't romantic, although...

He thought back to your quick eyes, the wild conviction in your posture as you stood before him, clutching your bag tightly, ready to beat him up if you didn't like where this conversation was going. The confidence with which you had analysed his staff, his library and himself without taking a second look at any of these things. After a short analysis, everything that came into your field of vision was shelved as information, he could literally see how your outstanding brain stored everything immediately. 

Your openness and directness reminded him so much of his brother that he was sure he had sent you.   
It was only when Mycroft saw the way you looked at him that he knew he hadn't.

Handsome. You called him handsome. He hadn't paid much attention, often enough people of all sexes tried to flirt with him to get information without it ever making an impression on him. 

But when you called him handsome, there was no ulterior motive or calculation in your eyes. You were just being honest. Again, Mycroft felt the strange sensation in his gut that he couldn't relate. 

He thought again about the small exchange of messages through his mobile phone and felt the corners of his mouth inevitably pulling upwards.   
The feeling in his chest grew stronger. 

He immediately frowned and repressed the feeling. No matter what kind of affection these feelings were based on, he could not and could not allow them to happen. Such things were a weakness, he could allow himself a little play here and there, but as soon as he lost control he had to end it. 

Could Mycroft Holmes, the British Government himself, afford to investigate these feelings further?

He had almost decided to withdraw the offer and blame himself for such a dangerous thought when his mobile phone made a little sound.

He didn't need to look to know the message was from you. 

"Would I work for you or for the government?"

Without thinking about it, he replied:

"Sometimes these things are hard to separate..."

before he sent the message, he added, driven by his gut instinct.

"...but you would be working under me."

He had pressed send before he thought about it. And immediately he realized he regretted his choice of words. He quickly sent another message after it. 

"I mean, for me, of course."

At the thought of you "working" under him, the strange feeling moved south and Mycroft Holmes felt something he hadn't felt in a very long time, that he had almost forgotten what it felt like: arousal.

With a last grin he put the phone away for good and dedicated himself to his work. But not without one last thought for you:

So it was sexual interest he had in you after all.


	3. Redwine and Chocolate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this one is a little short :)

You hadn't heard from Mycroft Holmes all day. Presumably, he wanted to give you time to decide whether you wanted to work for him. 

You hadn't been able to reply to any of his earlier messages. You just didn't know what. Whenever you closed your eyes, you saw the little letters forming a sentence that made you feel all sorts of emotions.

"...but you would be working under me."

He had corrected his choice of words, but the image of the elegant man leaning over you, moving between your thighs while you tremble under him - you could never get that out of your mind again.

You sat at home with a glass of red wine while you thought about this chaos called Mycroft. You couldn't see any signs of excitement on his body last time, so maybe the attraction wasn't mutual. But for some reason beyond your comprehension, you were sure it was mutual.

And usually your gut instinct was right about that. Probably your brain had just been faster and had seen signs of interest that you hadn't noticed. Now those subconscious insights came up again and told you: Mycroft Holmes was also interested. 

With a giggle you looked up at the table and saw that you had already drunk half a bottle of red wine. Totally untypical for you, you had bought it after work. On a whim, you had sat down in front of the TV with wine and chocolate and watched a romantic comedy. Normally, television rarely entertained you. It was just too boring. You had chosen one of these classic women's films on a streaming portal and were now almost halfway there. It was dull, monotonous, predictable and incredibly beautiful.

Maybe it was time to try this whole dating thing again. And Mycroft Holmes just seemed like the perfect first candidate for you.

Maybe it was the red wine, or maybe it had been so long since you had felt this way about a man, but you got out your phone and started sending a message. 

"Do you have a wife, Mr Holmes?"

Everything you had analysed about him with the help of your deduction had shouted at you that he was quite lonely and you hadn't seen a ring either, but for you it was the most harmless way to make it clear that you were interested in him.

You stared spellbound at the screen and when you could see after several minutes that he had read the message, but did not answer, you were in doubt.

Maybe your gut had let you down that one time?  
You had already given up and had just pressed Stop on your remote control, the picture was frozen in the middle of a hot kiss when your mobile hummed.  
When you looked at it, you couldn't believe your eyes. 

l "II pick you up in an hour. Why don't we talk about it over drinks?"

You broke out in a cold sweat. You were expecting a lot, but not this. You looked carefully at the bottle of red wine. Probably you could sweat the alcohol out again from panic. 

A date - with Mycroft Holmes. You didn't expect it to happen so soon. You wanted to ask him gently and maybe have a coffee with him in a fortnight or two. Maybe at the cafe where you first met him.  
But honestly, it seemed like an eternity, even though you had only met him the day before and you could not wait to see him again.

So you got dressed, put on some make-up and stood in front of your house on time. It was raining cats and dogs and you were waiting at the front door. The black limousine was on time like last time. But when Mycroft got out and opened an umbrella, he looked anything but happy. His eyes were dark, his features rock hard and his eyes were incredibly cold. 

He doesn't really want to go on this date. You could tell by his body language. When he came around the car to hold the umbrella out to you, you came towards him. He did not look at you, did not reach out his hand, but simply took you to the car and opened the door. When he muttered, "Let's get it over with", you couldn't help but regret sending him that message.

As you both sat in the back seat, Mycroft kept a great distance between you. You immediately noticed the suit he was wearing. It was again a three-piece suit, this time in grey with a red tie. Tie pin, cufflinks and the pocket watch. Everything fitted together perfectly and looked stunning. "We're going to a little bar that seems appropriate for this purpose." 

What's the occasion? My funeral? Judging by the mood, it could have been. 

You took a deep breath and were about to start talking when he asked in an icy cold tone of voice, without looking at you: "So you care if I'm single?"

You nodded and simply said "I was-"  
He interrupted you and continued, "Actually, I'm not. I'm married to my work and have been for ages. This is probably not the kind of relationship you had in mind when you asked, but my work is always a priority. I can barely remember my last date, but I know that I wasn't into small talk and meaningless banter even then, so I'll get straight to the point..."

But now he looked over to you and you could see why he had avoided it in the first place. After a second look you could see that his coldness was just a mask and he was actually very nervous. Probably as nervous as you are. You had to smile as he drove away:

"I am interested in you. And you are obviously interested in me, unless your message was merely caused by the alcohol you drank. Consider your deadline for the job offer moved up until I - I mean we - figure out what that is." He made a sweeping gesture that enclosed you both.

Again you wanted to say something, but he cut you off again. "I don't want to seem rude, but I'm a busy man and you're far too smart to put up with the usual dating games, so let's forget the acting for tonight and be frank and honest."

When he looked at you, confusion appeared on his face and he frowned. When he tried to start talking again, you beat him to it: 

"Mr. Holmes?"  
"Yes?"  
"That suit looks great on you."  
A smile appeared on his face and you could see the ice melting a little bit.


End file.
